Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Geoffrey lit his pipe again, blew out the match and shook his head. “I'm too old. My voice
sounds old. I can manage and I can coach. This calls for youth and a natural instinct. This calls
for skills you might take for granted, but I see what they are. You could say the same things
I could say, and people would smile for you but raise an eyebrow for me. Like I say, you're
young, and you got it. Maybe I'll find somebody else. You never know.”
It didn't grab me but I promised to think it over, and so I did, seeing myself in the chips,
which didn't seem like a goof but could have been a cop out—going on the radio to say things
I didn't believe to a people I didn't care about or like in exchange for money. It seemed calcu-
lated and cash based. I wanted no part of it, except for the money. The money would change
everything.
Legions of draft age guys with no deferments passed the military physical in 1970 and
waited the death knell,
Greetings . . .
War anxiety infused the first round lottery crowd with a
pandemic of dark spirit. Into that cloud Geoffrey Wendell had planted a little seed that ger-
minated to a vision. Imagine a right bona fide longhair with a penchant for improv. Just add
money and you get way out front of the hot mud crowd. You get the farm, all new, with mo-
bility and freedom, which was a delusion to be sure, but a welcome change from so much cul-
tural oppression.
The problems of rock stardom had not changed over the ages, beginning with bloated self-
esteem and skewed values. Geoffrey's idea changed perception of potential, enhancing our
basis for happiness; such is the nature of greed, which is most often self-inflicted. Lust got
confused with love. Emotions felt sincere, but new horizons viewed from our cozy attic ten-
ded to devalue our idyllic bliss. Pondering money, I believed I had the goods to cash in at any
time, no rush. With money available, I could be superior to material needs. All needs would
resolve with celebrity, though some needs felt well met at home. I'd never felt this way about
one coed, so I presented a plan to shore up the base and keep us calm. It called for optimal
sexual frequency. I thought true love warranted maximum potential, by paying attention to
the cock—I mean clock. Any healthy young man will affirm that a rest between rounds is es-
sential and can take two to forty-five minutes with about a twelve-minute average recovery.
Like time and tide, recovery was a requirement of nature, an interval that must be accepted.
Ninety-minutes would be conservative, a cuddly interlude deemed mature in some quar-
ters, and a recovery period of an hour and a half would render a brand new boy, ready to
mount up one mo' time for another ride like no tomorrow. I approached fucking—I mean
lovemaking—with method, often called methodology in your houses of academia. Make that
academiology.
Never mind. We would do it, wait forty-five to ninety minutes, and then do it again.
Round the clock.
By paying attention we could get in sixteen to thirty-two fucks per day, which wasn't real-
istic if we factored eating and sleeping, which could occur in the intervals, but the regimen
